Gay ninja Robot

Monday, March 10, 2014

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Thursday, March 6, 2014

I’ll admit that transitions have never been the strongest attribute of
my writing, or my talking, really. I just don’t see the need for them.
When I came out to my parents, my end of the conversation went
something like this: “I forgot to take out the trash. Also, I have sex
with men. No, not for money. Yes, in their assholes. No, mom, I was
not born this way. Yes, dad, it is all your fault. No, I haven’t
considered a lobotomy. Yes, the prostate really is a man’s g-spot. No,
you’re not on candid camera.”

What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, transitions.

As
the subject line indicates, I have five stories that will catch you up
on everything me, and therefore fabulously inconsequential, that’s
happened this past fortnight. And, lacking the ability to transition
between them, I’ve decided not to try. Because, as Ben Franklin once
proclaimed, effort is the hobgoblin of an enfeebled mind.Part I: The Valentine’s Day Massacre

Ah,
Valentine’s Day, that magical occasion where lovers express their
fondness for each other by showering them with roses, chocolates, and
semen. Or, in Gay Ninja Robot’s case, a time to sleep through the whole
damn thing and ruin friendships.

So, you see, GNR’s original plan was simple: dinner with Cayle, to end at precisely
9:00, at which point GNR would hop the 1 down to Times Square, where He
and Nick would grab a nightcap, and perhaps each other’s genitals. [Ed.: !]

"Nothing
can go wrong with this plan!" you must be thinking. Nothing at all.
Except GNR could fall asleep at Cayle’s, awaking at 10:30 to Nick’s
“where the fuck are you?” call. That could happen.

This is where you all get to be the proverbial judge.

First,
a confession. I fucked up. I really fucked up. And I apologized, by
phone a few times, and then by email, in which I expressed my hope that
Nick and I could still be friends. To this plea, he responded, “So fine
we’re friends, let’s meet out, wait for me.”

Ouch.

He
also told me that the “falling asleep story sounds fishy.” But no, I
really did. And I really did feel awful about it. But don’t anymore.
Because there comes a time in a young man’s life when He must realize
that some people are willing to throw away a potentially solid
friendship over one stupid fuckup. Even after He is broken up with
through the guy’s roommate, who confronts Him at a party to tell Him
that the guy has invited three other guys he’s dating to that same
party. So you be the judge. Am I right to be pissed off enough to be
sharing this here? Yeah, I think I am.

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

As James C. Dobson, founder of the Family Research Council,
plunged into me, again and again, each time more proudly and deeply, I bit down
hard on his pillow, elegantly embroidered with the visage of Jesus Christ
himself. “When would the pounding end?” I wondered, after hours, seemingly
days, of his savaging my anus.

“FOCUS ON THE FAMILY!!!!” he cried.

I lifted my head, and found myself gazing at his family
portrait, James standing proudly beside his lovely wife Shirley, and their
beautiful adult children, Danae and Ryan.

This only made me more aroused.As I came onto the framed
photo, and then collapsed, despite still being anally brutalized, my head
swirled quixotically: “If I tell the media about this, I’ll ruin the anti-gay
movement. But if I don’t, I can keep getting pounded by James C. Dobson.”

And my choice suddenly became clear. I gritted
my teeth, lowered my head, and raised my supple ass even higher. As James C.
Dobson moaned and emptied his future progeny deep inside me, I knew I had
chosen wisely